


at the end of the world

by antpelts



Series: the end of the world as we know it [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: (each chapter will have warnings and most triggering content wont be intense), (minor) - Freeform, (more tags to come), (not actually but theres some sexual talk), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Squips (Be More Chill), Animal Death, Child Neglect, Fire, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Parent Death, Slow Burn, Slurs, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Trans Michael Mell, Transphobia, Underage Drinking, rich never gets popular, the end of the fucking world au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antpelts/pseuds/antpelts
Summary: "17. Rich Goranski was 17. He was a senior in high school now, though he didn’t pay much attention to school anymore. Why would he?The awkward freshman he’d been melted into a less awkward and more brooding kid. Not not awkward. Just less.Besides, he was pretty sure he was a psychopath."// the end of the f****** world au
Relationships: Rich Goranski/Michael Mell
Series: the end of the world as we know it [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700071
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	at the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

> so... i love this show and ive been wanting to write something based around it. there will be tweaks to make things fit. big things are that rich never moves to new jersey and michael moves away from new jersey. michaels mom is married to his birth dad at this point. michael isnt a very chill kid because of his home life, over time hell likely develop more into the michael mell we know. hope you enjoy my weird indulgent project!
> 
> tw, there is some self-harm (richs burns, not too graphic at all), domestic issues (referenced) abuse, (referenced, not written) slurs, very slightly referenced suicide attempt, and referenced transphobia (no written deadnaming, however it's implied)  
> this likely wont update as frequently as my other fic and expect scattered one shots, this project will likely be a slower one of mine

17\. Rich Goranski was 17. He was a senior in high school now, though he didn’t pay much attention to school anymore. Why would he?

The awkward freshman he’d been melted into a less awkward and more brooding kid. Not  _ not  _ awkward. Just less.

Besides, he was pretty sure he was a psychopath.

* * *

_ 9\. Richie Goranski was 9. He had just been 8, 8 when he realized something was wrong. There was a tension in his home, teetering on the edge of breaking. It broke the next year. _

_ So he was 9. And all he wanted was to feel something, anything. One night he dug through the kitchen  _ junk drawer,  _ looking. The matches felt light in his hand, lighter than he thought they’d be. It was half emptied, though. Used. His mom had used them to light candles. She didn’t need them anymore. _

_ He could use them, though. _

_ Crossing the room he slunk out the back door onto the patio. The night was quiet, it seemed like the usual hum of crickets was quieter, as if they were listening for him. He sat on the edge of their pool, his mom used to clean it. Now it collected leaves and grime. Gross. Whatever. _

_ His legs were too short to reach the water. Despite the tinge to the water he almost wanted to slip in, the summer heat made him feel sticky. He had to get over heat at some point, though. Right? He struck a match, staring at the flame for a moment. Staring like it held the answer to every question that itched on the tip of his tongue. All the questions he couldn’t say. Tearing his eyes away he moved his hand over the top of it, relishing the warmth. It wouldn’t do though. _

_ Getting up he wandered off the patio, dropping the match on the ground. A few blades of grass lit up, dry from the summer’s heat, and for a moment he just watched. Then he crouched down and pressed his hand into the lit up blades. _

_ The doctors had called it a second degree burn, they said it was only about a 5-6% burn. At least it wasn’t worse. Rich didn’t have the capacity to really understand at the time. All he knew was that he felt it and that was all he was after. A feeling. _

* * *

The cafeteria bustled around him, he kept his head lowered, headphones tight against his ears. 

* * *

_ 15\. Richard Goranski was 15. For a while he thought it made him sound older if he went by his full name. He started high school on that note, Richard sounded like a more grown up name, maybe he’d get left alone that way. Instead the kids called him  _ ‘Dick’  _ and jeered at him. The anger threatened to boil over - he found new ways to handle it. _

_ The fires got bigger. _

_ First he burned ants, watching them curl up on the sidewalk. Too small. He moved onto other bugs, catching them in jars and then dropping in a lit match through a small hole in the lid. When that wasn’t enough anymore he traipsed around in the wooded area behind his house looking for birds and mice. There was never a chance for anything bigger, no matter how much he tried. _

_ He kept a notebook, he named each ant. Each bug. Each bird. Each mouse. Sometimes he sketched them. Sometimes he burned pages.  _

_ Sometimes he burned himself.  _

_ First degree. One percent. _

_ Second degree. Four point five percent. _

_ First degree. Two percent. _

_ Third degree. Two percent. (Though the second degree burn spread out around the worst of it was closer to 4.5%.) _

_ It was ironic, he thought, why did second degree hurt more? How did that make sense? He never really got the percents, either. It felt like a strange way to measure. Based on their scale cigarette burns weren’t even a full percent - right? A palm was one percent. Genitals were one percent. Though, even he wouldn’t go that far. What would a cigarette burn be, though? _

_ Those were the only burns  _ he _ didn’t leave on himself.  _

_ They were welcomed all the same. _

* * *

Raising his eyes from his lunch (a sandwich, nothing special) he glanced around. He wondered if he could try beyond a housepet. Maybe it would be easier to skip that step. Sometimes people were easier to get away than a pet. Sometimes people cared less about their kids than a pet.

If anyone knew that, he did. He needed someone like him - only slightly, though. Someone looking to feel something, someone vulnerable. Some kids just reeked of it here.

Someone was approaching him, not many people did that. There was a look on his face that Rich couldn’t place, not too threatening but not too soft. Maybe this kid was who he was looking for. He pulled off his headphones, looking up with a flat expression, waiting.

“I’ve seen you skate,” the kid shoved his hands in his pockets, staring a hole into Rich’s forehead. “You’re fucking ass at it.”

“Fuck off.”

* * *

17\. Michael Mell was 17. He was starting his senior year in a school he didn’t recognize after his junior year went to high hell in New Jersey. His best friend abandoned him and with failing grades and a failed suicide attempt his mom thought it was a good idea to move. Well, his dad thought it was a good idea. He sold the house before Michael could say goodbye, though he didn’t have anyone to say it to. 

* * *

_ The summer heat felt itchy. School started in a week and Michael still couldn’t even sit in that house without feeling like something was trying to escape his skin. It was too big, too empty. His dad was hard at work trying to convince his mom to have more children but he had already been a miracle. _

_ Or the opposite depending on how you looked at it. _

_ His dad just wanted a  _ baby girl  _ and when it became obvious he wouldn’t have that he just wanted to start over. Michael’s mom tried to be supportive. He was on testosterone and he’d gotten top surgery. His dad looked the other way but when he complied that meant his mom became more submissive. He was just a chess piece in their marriage. _

_ The grass was itchy but he’d rather lay there. His head was spinning but.. he wasn’t dizzy. He just felt too big and too small at once. Everything was just too much and he felt like it would swallow him whole.  _

_ Not soon enough. _

_Opening his eyes he looked up at the sky. Constant yet changing. It was there but you never knew what condition it would be in next. Like him. Like his parents. Blue. Gray. Black. Dull. Empty. Like_ him. _Like_ his parents. _Out here he could pretend. He could pretend he was happy, he could pretend his mom wasn’t pretending to love his dad. For a moment he’d pretend he was happy, alone, surrounded by nothing but itchy grass and harsh sun._

_ Innocent. He wanted to be innocent. _

_ No such luck, his mom looked down at him now. She wore an exasperated expression. It was time to go inside. _

* * *

Somehow he managed to make acquaintances. A group of girls. Maybe they sensed it, maybe they had him figured out. Maybe they could sniff out the femininity buried under hoodies and hormones - the femininity that his dad promised him he’d always have.

“I’m right here.” He curled his lip, looking at the girl who sat across from him. His phone pinged again. “Why are you texting me?”

“Dude, whatever,” she mumbled, tapping away.

“Why the fuck are you texting me? That’s so stupid.” New Jersey Michael wasn’t this mean, wasn’t this angry. Junior year took that and shattered it. Now he hid behind anger, it was all he had. Standing up he took his phone and slammed it on the ground, stomping on it for good measure before storming off. High schoolers were all the same and he’d rather run away before junior year happened all over again.

* * *

_ 8\. [Michael] Mell was 8. [He] wasn’t Michael yet. His parents were on a break while his mom nursed a black eye. When it was gone they would return. For now they stayed with his uncle. [Michael] loved his uncle. He let him wear shorts and shirts with dinosaurs on them, stuff his dad never let him do. _

_ When they returned home his uncle moved out of town.  _

_ [Michael]’s mom never told him why. _

_ At least he received a card from him, every year on his birthday. Somehow, after he came out the cards started reading the right name. He wished his mom would let him talk to him on the phone if she was talking to him. At least his uncle used the right name. The wrong name always came off his dad’s tongue, burning and harsh. _

_ He didn’t trust his dad. _

* * *

Michael stood in front of a kid, he wasn’t sure of his name but he pulled headphones off his ears and looked at him in a way that made his skin itch. He kind of liked it.

“I’ve seen you skate,” Michael shoved his hands in his pockets, staring a hole into Rich’s forehead. “You’re fucking ass at it.”

“Fuck off.”

Maybe Rich wasn’t the answer to his problems but he was  _ something. _

* * *

Rich sat on a bench outside the front doors. Less and less people poured out of the school and for a second he wondered if he’d somehow missed Michael. Now minutes were passing between each person leaving. Had he fucked something up? This was supposed to be his chance.

“Were you waiting for me?” Rich curled his lip a bit as he looked up to see Michael. He wore Rich’s headphones around his neck after taking them during lunch. He pulled out a walkman and plugged them in, Rich didn’t stop him. Michael was some weird mix of retro and modern that he didn’t get.

“No.”

Michael grabbed his hand and they made their way around to the back of the school. Michael backed himself against the wall and pulled Rich towards him. 

This made things easier - Rich would just pretend to fall in love and Michael would be all over him.

They kissed rough and.. not very well. Michael’s hands were all over him in a way he wasn’t familiar with, grabbing onto his hand. His hand.

“What happened to your hand?” Michael’s mouth separated from his and he breathed the words out against his lips, there was a flatness to his tone.

“Shut up.” His lisp finally broke out.

“You have a lisp.”

“Shut up.”

That was enough and Michael was kissing him again.

* * *

“I don’t have a phone.” Michael kept his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, Rich’s headphones still hung around his neck. He accepted that he probably wouldn’t get them back.

“Okay.”

“I smashed it,” there was an emphasis as he kicked at a pebble to emphasize his point. They walked on the side of the road despite there being a sidewalk. The roads were quiet enough.

“Okay.”

“On purpose.” Michael seemed frustrated and Rich almost wanted to smile. He was desperate. Desperate for attention. That was exactly what Rich wanted, someone vulnerable looking for meaning in their life.

“Okay.”

“So you can’t call me.” 

“Okay.” Rich shrugged, it felt like the right thing to do to seem normal. He needed these conversations to seem normal enough. He needed to keep it together until he had Michael wrapped around him. “I don’t have one either.”

A silence settled over them and Rich could hear the music blasting through his headphones, though they weren’t over Michael's ears.

“Wanna go on a date?”

* * *

A diner, something typical. Rich had seen it in movies before, that must mean it’s good, right? The menu felt heavy in his hands, he wasn’t even hungry.

“Is this true?” Michael’s voice drew him back to reality, he was turning the menu to show it to a waitress who was definitely not getting paid enough.  _ ‘World’s best pancakes.’  _ The woman gave a strained smile.

“Of course, hun.”

“I’ll take a stack of pancakes then. A coffee, black. A side of bacon. Eggs, over easy. And an extra fork.”

“Hungry, aren’t you?” The waitress’ eyes looked tired. Michael’s eyes looked tired. Rich felt tired.

“Fuckin’ fork’s for him.” Michael nodded his head in Rich’s direction. The waitress’ brow furrowed, she looked like she was about to start sweating.

“You can’t talk like that here.”

“Sorry.” Michael didn’t look sorry. “Then.. I’ll take a stack of fucking pancakes with some shitty coffee. A side of damn bacon, eggs over fuck, and an extra fucking fork.”

Michael was the kid who acted out for attention.

He hadn’t always been.

Distress crossed the waitress’ face and she froze up, turning her head to look back to the kitchen. “Claire-”

“Yeah, get fucking Claire, let’s see what she thinks.” Michael dropped the menu, crossing his arms. Before things could escalate Rich was fixing him with a look. Attention was the last thing he wanted, he wanted it to be quick and quiet. Seeming to get the hint Michael stood up, shaking the table on his way as he all but stomped towards the door. “Bye Claire!”

Rich gave the waitress the closest thing to an apologetic look that he could.

If he wasn’t sure before he was now - Michael had issues.

* * *

“This town sucks. Everything sucks. It’s boring.” Michael was already talking as Rich caught up to him. His words were angry but his eyes looked lost, glossy with the threat of tears. Rich gave him a half shrug, tucking hands into his pockets until he was fixed with an accusatory look. “Are you boring too, Rich?”

Without waiting for an answer he groaned, reaching into his pocket to dig out a cigarette? No, a joint. He fished out a lighter, too, lighting it. Rich tried not to stare at the flame for too long. Michael took a drag, puffing the smoke out in front of him. Someone was passing on the other side of the street, an old woman walking a small dog. She wore a large fur scarf and what seemed to be a mismatched track suit. “See, look she’s cool. Unlike every other person here.”

Rich stayed quiet, raising an eyebrow.

“She probably has a double life. An assassin. A spy.” Michael’s hands were out of his pockets, gesturing awkwardly while the joint hung from his lips. Interesting. Maybe this was who Michael was when he got attention. His eyes lit up, only a bit, his fingers were restless. “Can we go to your house?”

Rich thought for a moment. He thought about Michael, slumped over on his bed. He thought of blood on his hands. Blood on the sheets. He thought of feeling something. “Sure.”

* * *

“What kind of modern bullshit is this?” Michael was gesturing up towards his house. He’d made it clear he leaned towards retro. Rich didn’t think that was as much of a personality trait as he tried to force it to be. It didn’t matter.

Once they stepped inside Michael was kicking off his shoes, he looked at home. He looked more at home than Rich felt in this home. His home.

“Is this your mom?” Michael was holding up a picture frame, squinting a bit before he turned it towards Rich. For a second all he could manage was a nod, caught off guard.

“She.. lives in Japan.”

“Cool.” Michael set the picture back down, maybe a bit too hard. “You look like her.”

It felt like a punch to the gut.

* * *

The porch swing shifted as Michael kicked his feet, rocking them back and forth. “At least this thing is retro.”

“I don’t like it.” The words came from his lips before he could stop himself. He didn’t talk to people. Why was he talking to Michael?  _ It was part of the plan. _

“Why not?” There was almost a scoff and Michael sunk down where he sat. There was no answer but he didn’t seem to mind. Rich thought of his mom, thought of them swinging. She would run fingers through his hair, holding his head in her lap.

A hand drew him from his thoughts - Michael’s hand, on his thigh. His fingers were splayed out, brushing his inner thigh.. they didn’t move further, though. Neither of them spoke. 

Instead they went back inside, Michael was complaining about food. Maybe he had been hungry at the diner. Maybe he made himself uncomfortable and wanted an out. There had been small moments where Rich saw the confidence waver, moments where Michael would drop his gaze, mouth something to himself. If he wasn’t going to kill him then he’d be more curious about who Michael was without the act. In moments where he didn’t think too hard he was funny, he’d kick back, shrug, and make a comment that almost made Rich want to laugh. Almost.

“Richie?”

“Oh no.” Rich got up from his seat with more speed than he ever had, grabbing Michael’s arm and tugging him towards the stairs, pushing him up them. It felt good to have control, to grab his arm and move him. Maybe he really could do this. 

Michael listened from the top of the stairs. Rich said he had a friend over, though it felt forced. It was met with a slur, if he closed his eyes he could imagine his own dad downstairs. Maybe he was too young, he just didn’t get people’s issues with gay kids. Besides, no one said Rich was gay. He could be bi, or whatever. Michael didn’t really care as long as Rich wanted him. Pathetic.

Instead of listening too hard he gave up and wandered around upstairs. There was a sliding window that opened easily enough and he sat out on the roof. It was nice, nicer than being inside a weird house with weird people. But.. wasn’t his house a weird house with weird people? His mom wasn’t really his mom anymore and his dad would never be his dad. Not anymore.

“Your dad sucks.” The sound of the window alerted Michael to Rich’s presence so he talked to fill the space and soon they were sitting together, legs dangling off the roof.

“I wanna punch him sometimes.” Rich’s fingers twitched as he barely kept them from curling into fists. Did he? Was he just trying to win Michael over? In some fucked up way he  _ didn’t  _ want to punch his dad, his dad was all he had left. Even if he was an alcoholic, even if he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t want to be alone. Right?

“Do it.” Michael shrugged, maybe he could live through Rich. He thought about his own dad, the way he looked down on him. The way he said his name..  _ not  _ his name. His dad never used his name. “Have you ever eaten someone out before?”

Deflect. Deflect with sex. Testosterone gave him a high enough sex drive anyways. They could just fuck and Michael could forget everything for a boy who wanted him.

“Yes?”

“Let’s do it then. Unless you’re transphobic.” He scrunched up his face a bit, he hadn’t realized how he’d just outed himself. He was used to everyone knowing.

“I’m not.”

“Good. I’ll be here tomorrow at 11.”

* * *

Rich was ready by 10. His pocket knife felt heavy in his pocket, it felt like it would burn a hole and fall out. Burn. He’d prefer fire but he knew burning meant suffering and while it wasn’t like he didn’t want Michael to suffer he was more concerned with not drawing attention. The kid was so loud as it was, he couldn’t even imagine him screaming. Well, he could. 

So he thought about it.

* * *

Michael was prone to ruining things. He was ruining things right now, standing in front of his mom, trying to leave. He didn’t want to do a stupid lunch party for his stupid dad with his stupid work people. Why did they even have to host? Why did he have to change? The clothes his mom held out towards him looked too nice, too clean. Not that he was dirty.. it was just uncomfortable. Overly manufactured to be perfect.

“These are girl’s pants.” So his dad had picked the pants. His mom didn’t look him in the eye.

With a huff he spun around and disappeared into his room. He wasn’t in the mood for too much of a scene - he cringed. He’d made plenty of scenes the day before with Rich and looking back he wanted to throw up. Why couldn’t he just act normally? This wasn’t who he was.

Who was he?

The reflection looking back at him didn’t look like him. If he had his phone it wouldn’t fit in his pockets. The jeans clung to his thighs awkwardly. At least they were black, he could pretend it wasn’t as bad that way. The shirt was okay, a short-sleeve button up. Plain. 

Rich. He thought about Rich. The kid was weird, Michael liked that. He seemed a little fucked up and he kept following after Michael despite everything he did the day before. He almost felt like he could let his guard down and be normal around him. Almost.. safe. There was something about him that was just awkward and stupid and safe.

Balancing a tray of party snacks that was all he could think about. Picking over the crackers and cheese to pop some into his own mouth. At that his mom sent him a look and he just bit the inside of his cheek, looking away before slipping between the guests. Slowly he watched the snacks disappear, picked up by people who looked too much like his dad. Men who looked at him a little too long. He wanted to throw up.

Instead he abandoned the half-empty tray on a table and found his way to the kitchen. He kept his head down as he passed his dad, heading straight to the fridge. His plan was to be alone somewhere without getting reprimanded for hiding in his room. It seemed that he just couldn’t have anything. A chair scraped against the tile. Michael’s shoulders tensed.

“Have a beer,” Michael’s brain short circuited as he heard (not) his name. The smile his dad wore wasn’t right.

“Michael,” he muttered, though he took the beer, sipping from it as he stepped away from the fridge.

“Mm,” his dad hummed lowly, it was masked as an acknowledgement but years later he still never used the right name. He was very aware of what he was doing. “Why are you putting a damper on this party, it’s important for my work.”

“It’s stupid. They’re all stupid.” Despite everything his dad had never laid a hand on him - so he could pretend he was fighting back with short comments and not have to worry about consequences. The lack of love was punishment enough. “This house is stupid. This shitty town is stupid.”

“Leave then,” it was said plainly as his dad took another sip of his beer. He stepped forwards, leaning on the counter next to where Michael stood. “Just do everyone a favor and leave, it’s what you want - isn’t it?”

Michael’s throat felt tight, his hands felt shaky and he set the beer down. His only answer was to take a step back, away from his dad and towards the doorway to the hall and stairs. A shudder ran down his back and he cast a glance back at his dad against his better judgement.

“You know, when you make an effort you look pretty.”

Nausea washed over him, seizing his stomach as he all but stumbled up the stairs.

* * *

From his bedroom window he could see the backyard. His mom flittered between guests, he could picture the look on her face. Desperate and pleading. Anything to please his dad. Of course he was angry, angry that his mom kept them there but.. he wasn’t angry  _ at  _ her. He was angry for her and just.. sad. Sad that he was about to leave her alone.

Kicking off the too-tight jeans he dug out a different pair, a pair from his mom. A pair his dad pretended he didn’t have, from the men’s section. He tugged them on and shoved his feet back into his shoes. In the interest of comfort he pulled on a t-shirt and grabbed his hoodie from the back of his closet. It was something his uncle gave him. A plain red hoodie. It had a sort of acid wash to it though, it was weird in a cool way. Pulling it over his head he wandered back to the window.

It should have been scary, how easy it was. 

Maybe not. Looking at the scene below everything seemed so simple. He was looking from the outside now, everything was so small and insignificant down there. Fake parties with fake people. This wasn’t where he wanted to be anymore and that was finally abundantly clear to him. He made up his mind.

“Fuck this.”

* * *

Rich’s door loomed in front of him. Until it didn’t. It opened and he saw Rich’s face, beautiful in some fucked up way. The gap in his teeth, the burn scar crawling up around his neck and over his cheek. His hair was slightly greasy. Either Michael’s type was fucked up or he was just a pent up teen.

Maybe being angry and sad just turned him on.

Shouldering past Rich he made his way to the living room, the house was clearly empty, the only car missing from the driveway. He tugged his hoodie off over his head and dropped it on the arm of the couch before dropping down himself, unbuttoning his pants but leaving them on. Rich followed, slower, standing next to the couch and for once he looked something other than empty, Michael couldn’t read him, though.

He licked at his lip, showing off that tooth gap again. His eyes seemed to bore through Michael and it was sort of scary, yet hot. There was something almost like confusion or concern but it was gone as soon as he noticed it. In some fucked up way Michael thought about falling in love with him.

Maybe he could.

Or maybe it was just because he had a car.

Rich’s mind ran on a completely different track. He thought of his knife, tucked under the pillow that was less than a foot from Michael’s hip. Maybe if he was normal he’d be thinking about Michael’s hips. Maybe he thought about them for a second. But then he thought about his face - not the softness of his lips, not the way he looked up through his eyelashes, not the way his hair fell over his forehead. He thought about whether or not he wanted to see that face when he pulled his knife out and-

“Let’s leave. Let’s just leave.” Michael crossed his arms over his chest, the longer Rich looked at him the worse he felt, buttoning up his pants. He wanted it, didn’t he? Maybe he could just have it later. Right? He just had a lot of nerves, they could park the car somewhere and.. “You have a car, your dad gets home soon, doesn’t he? Let’s just go.”

Michael stood up, fixing his shirt and gathering his hoodie in his arms. Everything felt like it was burning and he felt sick. “I’m going whether or not you do. Are you coming?”

_ ‘Please say yes.’ _

Rich thought about it, he wasn’t particularly in any rush. Besides, maybe they could find somewhere that would let him break out a fire. Maybe he could get his way.

“Okay.”

As if on cue they heard tires on gravel. Michael pulled his hoodie over his head and started towards the door. When he turned his attention away Rich scrambled for the knife, tucking it back into his pocket. For once he felt a slight excitement as he felt the weight in his hand. It was enough to spur him on as he grabbed the spare keys hanging by the door. Everything felt like a blur as they stepped outside, his dad fixed him with a look and opened his mouth. Before anything came out Rich’s fist connected with his jaw and he just  _ dropped.  _ His hands shook as he started the car.

At least his dad would probably rather him gone, would use some more of his mom’s  _ death money  _ to get a new car. Or he’d just stay home and drink his days away. He’d be happy Rich was gone.

* * *

The road outside of town was bumpy, fading into the countryside. 

“Are you scared?”

Michael’s voice pulled Rich from his thoughts and he tightened his grip on the wheel. Was he? He wasn’t too sure. He leaned towards no, he was finally getting what he wanted but he didn’t know if that was what Michael wanted to hear and he needed to keep him close to get what he really wanted. “Maybe?”

“I’m not.” He pulled his legs up and leaned his head on the window, watching the world blur past them.

Maybe he should have been.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments keep me going!


End file.
